A Gathering of Shadows
by Rogue Knight1
Summary: Running With the Demon Crossover. John Ross must keep the void from tampering with The Game. Now with five times the chapters! R/R
1. Default Chapter

This is a very rough draft of the first part of a Highlander/Running With the Demon crossover, taking place in the original movie's universe, so Duncan, and all other Immortals exept the ones in the movie are dead. I had to bend John Ross' chronology to make it fit into the story. Please, please review.  
  
  
A Gathering Of Shadows  
  
  
Prologue  
  
*He stares with weary eyes at the ruins of the once-proud metropolis of New York city, now burning with flames of mundane origin, and magical lightning. The demons and once-men have had their way here, as everywhere else in this region, but it is somehow different, the pace of the mad destruction somehow more frenzied. There is more at work in this city than demons. The tired man who had been a knight of the Word turns and limps down the shattered roadway... and stops. Coming from the direction of the dying city is the sound of a wheeled vehicle. He tries to run, to hide, but he is not quick enough. A powerful old car pulls up, and it's occupant steps out. He has a sword in his hand, some kind of broadsword, it's blade glistening red with blood. "So, a knight of the Word." The voice of the warrior is deep and vibrant, matching his well-muscled frame, but somehow cold, harsh. "I wondered when the next one of you would crawl out of the rubble. Before I kill you, know this: You are beaten, and the power of the Word broken forever; but the same may yet hold true of the void, if I so desire it. For I am Erik Ranulfson, the One! And the Prize is MINE!"  
As he said these words, the warrior raised his sword for a killing blow. John Ross, free of the restraints of the time before his failure, blasted at the swordsman with waves of fire from his rune-carved staff. The man who called himself Ranulfson went down, a charred corpse. Ross was about to take the vehicle and flee when he heard a noise behind him. Turning, he came face to face with an unharmed Ranufson. Panicking, the former Knight leapt away from both the car and the strange man who would not die, and dropped the staff that was his only weapon. As the sword came up, for a truly final blow this time, Ross' last thoughts were :If Macleod were here, he could have stopped this.: Then it was too late to think.*  
  
Ross awoke suddenly, in response to the dawn light coming in through a hole in the roof of the abandoned barn he was in, somewhere in Illinois. He grabbed his bag, and began the long walk to the nearest bus station. His dreams had rarely seemed this urgent, and never had the pattern of destruction altered so.  
  
  
Chapter one  
  
October 20th, 1980  
  
The lettering on the window read "R. Nash-Antiques," and the ground floor bore out the truth of this. It was unquestionably an antique shop, with it's neat shelves of antique silver, racks of old and elegant weaponry, and it's wide assortment of aged, and sometimes astonishing, furnishings and art. One thing it was not, however, was a junk shop. Even if the proprietor, R. Nash himself, where to let the place slip from it's tight order, his secretary, a Miss Rachel Ellenstein, would immediately go to work, not resting until all was neat and tidy once more.  
"Connor, you do not have to do this! So what if he murdered a man for no reason, so what if 'there can be only one!' You do not have to fight him!" This torrent of words came from Rachel Ellenstein, an elegant middle-aged woman, and was directed at a quiet, brooding man in a trenchcoat and jeans, who stood at the door ready to go out.  
"Rachel, it was not just the murder of innocent mortals, he killed Duncan! And 'there can be only one' is all the reason any of us needs. The time of The Gathering draws nearer, I can feel it!"  
Rachel heaved a resigned sigh. "Just promise me you'll be careful, Connor."  
"Always, sweet Rachel." This said, Connor Macleod of the clan Macleod stepped out into the street, heading for battle. He sarted whistling an old highland marching song without noticing.  
  
Walking through the crowde streets of New York, his home now for the last five years, Connor mused on the way life changes.  
*To think, Duncan dead! just like so many others, mortal or Immortal, they all must die. Even without death, there would be change.   
Rachel has been a daughter to me, then a lover, and now, finally, a mother. Without her, these last forty years would have been empty.*  
He reached his destination, an abandoned factory. Making sure no eyes were on him, he drew his katana, and slipped inside.  
The interior was vast; empty space all over giving room to fight, and space to run, while the shadows lurking in the corners gave a chance of a place to hide. High catwalks stretched overhead, accessible by means of wrought-iron sprial staircases scattered at intervals. The only light came from six long, tall windows, and several skylights placed in the high ceiling.  
"Connor Macleod, of the clan Macleod, no doubt." The voice was smooth, elegant, but subtly mocking. "I have not had the pleasure of being introduced to you, though of course, I now know you clansman very well. You might say," the voice added with a chuckle, "that we have become soulmates!"  
"Yokashi Hayaki! I have come to avenge the death of Duncan Macleod, and to see justice done for the murders of the mortals, Tessa Noel and Jack Kesner!" Connor's voice rang with the cold fury that poured through his veins, touching off his celtic berserker spirit. He could now hear little exept the blood pounding past his eardrums.  
"Very well, Macleod! let us finish this!" A compact oriental man with a katana in one hand, and in the other a matching short sword, a wakizashi, appeared in front of Connor, and battle was joined.  
The clash of swords filled the vast chamber, sparks jumping from blade to blade as Quickenings interacted, and combatants gave and took many minor wounds. Connor pushed hard, trying to break his opponents defenses, but the two swords whirled in harmony, forming a wall of impenetrable steel, flicking out occasionally to nip at the Highlander. Leaping to the side, Connor suddenly dropped and whirled to cut at Hayaki's ankles. The Japanese swordsman lept into the air, coming down blades-first, straight at Macleod.  
*I hope Ramirez was right about this trick working.* By the time Connor had the time to think this, it already had. The other Immortal had been deflected to the side, his momentum ramming him to the hard concrete with savage force, shattering the blade of his long sword, and knocking the companion blade out of his grasp. Hayaki was quick, however, and by the time the Highlander was back up, he had his wakizashi back and in guard position. Again they came together, this time with Yokashi taking the offensive, trying to keep his foe off balance with a series of cuts from multiple angles. Macleod, for his part, was keeping distance between himself and his opponent, trying to find an opening for a truly devestating cut. Suddenly, the samurai warrior turned, and dashed for the nearest stairway. Connor dove after him, but was hampered by his long coat. Yokashi Hayaki, son of a Daimyo, retainer to the Shogun, and pupil of Musashi's Nito Ichi Ryu style, reached the top of the catwalk and turned to face Macleod again, charging in the hopes of pushing him off the stair. Instead, the Highlander executed a perfect 'fire and stones' cut, shattering the much-abused short sword, paused long enough to say 'There can be only one,' and struck off his opponent's head. Then the Quickening began, and he forgot all else in the raging inferno of power, flashes of memory, and pure blinding agony.  
  
Joe Dawson turned off the video camera, and let go a sigh of relief. After Yokashi Hayaki had murdered Duncan and his lover, Joe had requested, and recieved, the task of Watching Connor, Duncan's kinsman. The satisfaction of seeing Duncan avenged made the favors he had called in for this assignment all worthwhile. He put the camera in his car, modified with hand controls much like Roosevelt's, and was just about to get in himself, when he heard a voice behind him.  
"Joseph Dawson, I presume?" the voice was deep and raspy, with a sinster undercurrent that made Joe's flesh crawl. turning, he saw two figures. one was a tall, thin man, dressed in a black frock coat. He looked about sixty, with whisps of white hair sticking out from under his black flat-topped, wide-brimmed hat, and deep lines carved into his weathered brown face. In his hands he held a book, bound in ancient leather. His companion hung back in the shadows, a very ordinary-looking man, so ordinary that the eye slid off him, and memory could not retain his face.  
"What if I am?" demanded Joe. "I don't see how it's any of your business!"  
The tall man smiled slowly. "Ah, but it does, my friend. For you see, I know who you are. More important, perhaps, I know what Macleod is." The tall man paused, savoring the look of astonishment that crossed the Watcher's weathered face, then continued. "But let us get to the point. I am Findo Gask, and I am a demon. So for that matter is my friend, here." The astonishment on Dawson's face became more acute, but then he rallied himself and replied.  
"All right, so you know about Watchers and Immortals, and you're a demon. Do you have a reason for telling me this, or are you wasting my time?"  
"Bravado will not help you now, Mr. Dawson. I and my associate are here because we have plans for Macleod, and for The Game, and you, Joe Dawson, with your taste for meddling, would trie to stop us. So I have decided to eliminate you before you become a nuisance. Nothing personal, you understand, just business."  
As he finished speaking, Findo Gask raised his hand. Before he could work whatever dark magic he was planning, however, he met a far more substantial weapon: the Colt .45 that Dawson carried with him wherever he went. Two bullets passed through Gask's torso, driving him to the ground. The Watcher tried to get into the car and flee, but the other Demon, motionless until now, suddenly lashed out, wrenching the prosthetic legs out of shape with a burst of magic. Dawson fell, just in time to see Findo Gask stand up again, unharmed. Then the other Demon tore his throat out with it's bare hands. 


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter 2  
  
October 22, 1983  
  
  
Connor sat on his couch sharpening his sword, Rachel sitting across from him. As always, his longtime companion demonstrated her relief that his head was still attached to his neck by scolding him harshly.  
"You keep fighting battles you don't need to, keep taking risks that you don't have to take! Sooner or later, it will catch up with you, and then what? I tell you, The Prize will not be won by you if you lose your head before the Gathering! Wait, bide your time, until only one other remains. Then you can face him, and finish it in one battle!"  
Connor chuckled dryly. "Rachel, there is nothing but risk, no matter how you live. If I wait until the end, my opponent, whoever he may be, will be to strong for me to face. The safest course is to take as many heads as possible now, so that when the time comes, I will be able to fight on level ground." He grinned widely as he put the last touches on the tip of the blade. "Your problem is that you worry to much. You always have. Goodness knows you have no reason to. When we first met you saw that bullets cannot kill me, and since then I have proven again and again that I do not lose duels."  
"someday, Connor, that self-assurance will be your undoing."  
"Perhaps, Rachel, perhaps. But that day has not yet come." He sheathed the sword, and stood up. "Will you join me for dinner, Rachel?" It wads a question that had become traditional over the long years of their relationship.  
"Of course I will, Connor." This reply was also tradition.  
Connor smiled. At least in Rachel, he had done something right.  
  
*John Ross stood inside a ruined building, seeking refuge from the demons and once-men who roved the city, slaughtering the few who still remained. The shards of glass still left in the window frame were painted with the letters "R...sh tiqu..." John Ross could find no meaning in them.  
His attention was grabbed suddenly by the sound of a woman's sobs, coming from deeper inside the building, where the upper stories had collapsed to the ground floor. He followed the sound, and came upon a middle-aged woman, tears streaming down her face, and the look of total despair in her maddness-filled eyes. In her lap she cradled a human head.   
"Connor, why?" she sobbed, addressing, John realised suddenly, the severed head. "I told you to be careful! I told you that your confidence would kill you! You knew that Ranulfson was being helped by those creatures, yet you went in by yourself to fight him!"  
The woman looked up suddenly, and noticed the fallen knight fore the first time. "You!" Her sorrow was replaced suddenly by fury. "You could have helped him, but you refused! It is because of you that Connor Macleod is dead, and because of you that Ranulfson has The Prize!" I should kill you now!" She stood up, grabbing the hiltshard of a shattered katana, preparing to do just that.*  
  
When he woke up, he found O'olish Amaneh sitting beside him. The Lady's messenger seemed to have been at Ross' campsite long enough to make himself comfortable. He surveyed the supine Knight, and began to speak.  
"You have been sent on a new mission, Knight of the Word," the big Indian began without preamble. "You have been given dreams that lead you to New York city, but as yet, you do not know their significance."  
"Correct so far, shaman." John Ross spoke coldly. He remembered all to well his first meeting with Two Bears, when he had been given the rune-carved staff he wielded, and the limp that bound him to it.  
"Go to the town five miles down the road. There is an alley behind the Crumper's Diner. Be there at midnight tonight, and you will see what you must deal with."  
Ross arose from his sleeping bag, and began rolling it up. "That's it? No details, no word on who I'm facing?"  
"I am bound by rules even as you are. It is the price we pay for our magic. You carry a limp, and are consumed from within by the dreams. I, on the other hand, can only give clues, advise you, and leave you to fight your own battles. It is my place in the Word's order of things. The price I pay for my knowledge is my inability to share it."  
John Ross cursed inwardly as he finished binding his bedroll. Clearly the big shaman was a dry well as far as further help went. Nothing for it but to go to that alley. When he looked up again, O'olish Amaneh was gone as completely as if he had never existed.  
  
Erik Ranulfson pulled the shadows of the alley around him like a cloak, his blood-thirsty slashing blade hanging easily by his side. He waited. After an hour, he was rewarded, as a youngish-looking man, elegantly dressed, walked past the alley's mouth.  
"Don Ramon de la Vega, born four hundred and ninety-seven years ago; you die tonight." The young man turned toward the voice, and found himself facing a nightmare. Before him stood a seven foot tall viking, complete with sword and round shield. Ramon drew his own sword with the speed of thought, a long heavy rapier with a wavy flamberge blade.  
"That toy will not help you now, Don Ramon." Ranulfson chuckled slightly as he adopted a battle-stance.  
"We will see, barbarian!" The spanish nobleman leapt at his opponent, his sword supplemented now by a matching main gauche that he had produced seemingly out of nowhere. The spaniard was lightening-fast, his techniques elegant and efficient, as befited a student of Juan Sanchez Villa-lobos Ramirez, but the norseman withstood them easily, using his shield to take the blows, and responded with sweeping cuts from his double-edged battle-sword. De la Vega finally penetrated the Dane's guard and thrust with inhuman speed at the warrior's heart, only to have his blade glance off of the tough mail that Ranulfson wore under his fur cloak. Off balance and shaken by the impact, Ramon was lucky to hold his ground against the viking's onslaught. Ranulfson finally managed to back his foe up against the grimy wall, dashed the sword from his hand with a blow from his shield-edge, and thrust the Danish iron right through the spanish don's heart.   
"There can be only one!" The traditional cry left Ranulfson's lips as Ramon's head left his shoulders. Then The Quickening came, blasting stone, shattering glass, frying electronics, melting metal, the power of a hundred fallen champions, all of it rushing directly to the core of Erik Ranulfson's soul. When it was over, he shuddered, and fell.  
  
Findo Gask nodded to his companion. The time had come for them to move. stepping from the shelter of the dorrway, the two demons walked up to the convulsing Immortal.  
"Erik Ranulfson," Findo Gask said. "Born one thousand, one hundred, and thirty-seven years ago; you will *not* die tonight."  
The battered viking looked up blearily at this unexpected intrusion. He drew himself up with some difficulty, and raised his sword. Findo Gask shook his head.  
"You will not need that weapon, viking, nor would it do you any good." This last was not entirely true. The bullet wounds in Gask's chest still throbbed in pain, and had they been placed somewhere more prominent, like his head, he would have been unable to show himself in public for some time, waiting for them to heal. He pressed on. "I and my companion wish to help you, to make sure that The Prize becomes your own."  
Ranulfson stared in astonishment. His brain, battered as it was by a Quickening, had trouble absorbing this bewildering statement. "What exactly did you have in mind?" he asked shakily.  
"Perhaps we can *show* you, Erik. Yes, we will show you. Go to the house of Joseph Randos three days from now, and we will make his head yours."  
  



	3. Chapter Three

Chapter three  
  
October 25, 1983  
  
  
John Ross walked the street of New York, seeking some hint as to the whereabouts of Russell Nash, having little success. He now knew what the man's secrets were, thank to both his apocalyptic dreams, and the encounter he had witnessed when he followed O'olish Amaneh's advice. Now all he had to do was track the man down. His quest had taken him all over the city, from one end to the other. He was by the docks when the demons caught him.  
Three of them, ordinary-looking, but smoldering with the unfocused anger and hatred that was the mark of all who served the Void. They spread out, forming a triangle aroung the Knight of the Word, closing in slowly, gathering dark fire to themselves. The you Knight realized he could not defeat so many, and prepared to kill as many as he could before going down, when one of his opponents burst into flames. The human body destroyed, the soul flew away in terror, only to be cut down by another blaze of fire. Ross and the remaining demons turned to see the source of this magical devestation, and Ross could only stare in amazement at what had to be another Knight of the Word. He had a runestaff very like the one Ross carried, and it blazed with magic. He lashed out again, and the demons fell back. Then they launched a counter-offensive from two angles, forcing the Knight to use his magic to form a barrier against the demon-fire that rushed at him. Again John Ross was about to draw on his magic, to help this strange Knight, when the embattled paladin dropped his shield and struck at one of the demons. Shell and soul were both annihilated by the magical onslaught, but not without cost. Seeing the opening, the third demon rushed in, lashing at the Word's champion with dark fire and poisoned steel. The Knight writhed in agony, twisting like a mad serpent as demon poison coursed through his veins like liquid fire, the magic flames roasting his skin all the while as though he were walking on the face of the sun. With all this, however, the warrior still retained enough control to turn his power towards his killer, blasting the husk of a human body to ash. But not even his mighty strength of will could last forever. The spell-fire waned and died without finishing the demon who, reduced to it's true batlike self, black and twisted, fled into the darkness of the gathering dusk, seeking some refuge where it could rebuild a human form.  
John Ross ran twards his fallen savior, wishing, not for the first time, that his magic could heal others besides himself. The mortally wounded champion looked at him through eyes full of pain set in scorched, blackened skin, and gathered the strength to speak.  
"Came to tell you...must not use magic until you meet...the planner. He and ...the Slayer, they are the true peril. Also," the Knight's power was draining as fast as his blood, which had already pooled across the concrete floor. "Also, I must give you this." He exausted himself grasping a six-inch long piece of carved black wood, which bore many of the same runes as John Ross' staff. "A battery of magic, to be used... once and only once, if you have need of power before the last battle. I am content. My dreams have not come to pass." And with that, the paladin of the Lady fell silent, forever.  
John Ross took the magic battery, said a brief prayer for his comrade-in-arms, and vanished into the gathering shadows, before the police could arrive.  
  
Erik Ranulfson, without his viking regalia this time, carrying his sword in a gym bag, stood in an elevator with the two demons. Ascending silently to the roof, the three stepped out into a wilderness of tar paper, vents, fans, and unidentifiable hulks of rusting metal. Next to the water tank that stood near one corner of the roof sat a man.  
"I have been expecting you, Erik." The man spoke without turning. "I was, in fact, expecting you two days ago, when you killed de la Vega. Next it will doubtless be the Highlander. I doubt you will be satisfied until all of Ramirez' pupils are dead. Very well, let us play our little game again." At this, the man stood and turned, revealing the CSA cavalry saber in his hand. He was taken aback by the sight of the viking's companions, but regained his composure quickly.  
The two Immortals stood facing each other, blades in hand, for about a minute without moving. Then the saber-wielder, Joseph Randos by name, lunged furiously, cutting with an elegant rage, a graceful abandon, bringing the edge of his confederate-issue weapon towards Ranulfson from every angle, blocking cuts from the viking's broadsword with a consummate skill. Then Findo Gask's companion went into action.  
Leaping into the conflict, his motions dominated by a feral grace, the utterly ordinary-seeming creature was transformed into a living whirlwind of strikes and kicks, moving like a shadow, striking like an axe. Randos cut at the demon with the same skill that he showed against Ranulfson, but each time, the saber passed through empty air, and the demon only drew closer. Finally, the savage killing machine that was the Slayer came close enough to smash the sword from the Immortal's grip. Unarmed, the six hundred year old swordsman was forced to retreat, rolling and leaping, past both the demon and the viking. He dived for the other side of the elevator, grabbing the sword he had concealed there earlier as a contingency plan, then fleeing into the jungle of vents and pipes. The Slayer lept after him, demon fire forming around his hands, aching to be used against this fool who dared to challenge him. Ranulfson followed closely, sword held at the ready, eager for blood. The three came together by the fire escape, where Randos was preparing to flee. Then Findo Gask appeared, and smote the rusted iron of the fire escape where it joined the stone of the building. With a harsh crash, the metal sundered, smoking, from the shattered stone. No escape lay in that direction. Randos dodged a blast of fire from the Slayer, and parried a stroke from Ranulfson's blade, but he could not escape Findo Gask's attack. Chanting words of power, Gask caused a waterpipe to burst apart, and made the flood of water turn to ice. The deadly-sharp lances of frozen water drove themselves right where the demon wanted them: Joseph Randos' heart. Erik Ranulfson stood above his fallen enemy, sword held high.  
"There can be only ONE!" The norseman struck the head from his pinioned foe's shoulders, and let the power flow into him, as Findo Gask and the Slayer looked on.  
  
  



	4. Chapter Four

Chapter four  
  
October 27, 1980  
  
John Ross had just about given up all hope of persuading the middle-aged secretary to let him see Mr. Nash. For the last fifteen minutes, the kindly-looking lady had told him 'no' in so many polite ways that he had lost track. Mr. Nash was unavailable at the moment, perhaps I can assist you? It might be best for you to return tomorrow. Mr. Nash will not be in for some time, so you may find waiting tiresome. At least he had begun to crumble her self-control now.  
"I say again, Mr. Ross, that Russell Nash is not available at this time! He is away on business. If you are interested in a specific item, I may be able to help you locate it!"  
"I am sorry, Ms. Ellenstein, but I wish to see Mr. Nash on private business. I am more than happy to await his return."  
"I doubt he will return before the shop must close. I advise you to return tomorrow, or perhaps the next day." Ms. Ellenstein's voice could have frozen water.  
John Ross decided to play his last card, one he had been saving in the hopes that it would not be needed. "Very well, Ms. Ellenstein, in that case, can you tell me the whereabouts of a man named Connor Macleod?"  
The look of shock that passed over her face did not last long, but it told Ross everything he needed. "But then, Ms. Ellenstein, if I know where Macleod is, I know where Nash is, don't I?"  
"I am sure I don't know what you mean." Her voice was a trifle breathless, a hint of fear showing in her eyes.  
"Russell Nash is an alias. Your employer has been alive for centuries, and his name is Connor Macleod. I need his help, and he needs mine. Now can you tell me where he is?"  
"Perhaps, Mr. Ross," Rachel Ellenstein spoke in a whisper, as shaken by this man's knowledge as if she had been struck by lightning, "perhaps you should wait for him after all." Then she did something that Ross truly did not expect. She stood up, and pointed a gun at him. "If you make one wrong move, I will shoot, and I will saw your head off before you recover. Now go into the next room and sit, with your coat off, and your hands where I can see them."  
The Knight of the Word had little choice but to obey.  
  
Mr. Nash was unavailable at the moment because he was standing in an empty public restroom, drenched in blood, his own, and that of the headless body at his feet. The fight had been savage and brutal, and at the end, his clothes were slashed up beyond repair, and even as an Immortal, the blood loss made him slightly faint. The Quickening had left him even more spent than usual, and he still had no idea how he could get out of the public restroom and back home without being seen. On the other hand, staying put would mean being found, sooner or later, with a sword in his hands, a corpse at his feet, and gallons of blood drenching every inch of the room. He was simply to exhausted to think. He had simply been washing his hands in the public washroom, not looking for any trouble, when the man with the medieval broadsword had walked in, locked the door, and begun the fight without so much as an introduction. He had been very, very, good. In the end, only the superiority of the Masamune-forged steel had saved him, breaking the standoff by shearing right through the european iron. Connor checked the door's lock. He was secure from casual passers-by in need of relief, but eventually someone would try to force entry, and it would all be over.  
  
Ranulfson laughed heartily as he swigged his beer. This new alliance was working out splendidly. In three days, he had taken three heads, and with greater ease than he had expended in the past for one. Findo Gask, however, did not share his good spirits.  
May I ask, viking," the demon said coldly, "when, precisely, you intend to challenge Macleod?"  
"Whenever I feel like it, Lokison!" The Immortal was buoyed by good spirits, good Quickening, and good beer, and had reverted to the mannerisms of his younger days, when the warriors would fill the longhouse with shouts, songs, and boasts, and he called his demonic ally in the manner of a son of Loki, the closest thing to satan that his people's beliefs could muster. Loki's children had included the queen of hell, a serpent that crushed the world in it's coils, and a wolf that slew the god of war. Findo Gask was in good company.  
"With you and that killing machine over there," he waved vaguely at the corner where the Slayer lurked, "I can take that idiot of a scotsman any time I want, and he will stand no chance!" With this, he slumped over and lost consciousness.  
Findo Gask shook his head sadly. Such a weak foundation on which to build the Void's final victory. At least, so it seemed now. Gask was no stranger to the deceptiveness of appearances, and had realized from the start that a savage was the perfect tool. Much combat ability, little intelligence, and a complete lack of scruples, these were the ingredients of a demon's pawn, and Ranulfson met all the requirements. *If only we can finish this before the servants of the Word can disrupt things, the balance will be completely thrown off, and victory will be ours!* The thought brought some satisfaction to Gask, making a total of five separate emotions the demon had experienced that day. *So many. I must be careful not to lose my edge. This Highlander must die soon.*  
  
  



	5. Chapter Five

Chapter five  
  
October 28, 1983  
  
It was about three in the morning, and Connor had yet to return. Rachel did her best to mask her worry, but as she talked with the strange and uncanny visitor, she was convinced that her facade was not working.  
For his own part, John Ross was growing increasingly nervous. His last dream had showed him a day calendar. He had until Halloween to save the universe. With the universe so far having done very little to help. With nothing else to occupy his mind, he drifted in memory to the events of six days past, when he had followed the advice of Two Bears, and found himself in a small alley in a small town...  
  
...where nothing interesting could possibly happen. Or so it seemed to the casual eye. John Ross' eyes were far from casual. Brief though his service to the Word had been so far, he had seen much of good and evil and their eternal war, and knew how much of that war was waged in places like this. Midnight. There came a rustling from one end of the dark alley as a man stepped out of the shadows, and into the light of the small lamp that hung over the kitchen door of the diner. He was tall and lean, wrapped in a long dark coat, into which he had thrust one hand, which seemed to be grasping some object in a hidden pocket. He surveyed the area carefully, but did not notice John Ross, who had chosen his hiding spot very well. From his perch on the diner roof he could see all that went on below, without risk of being spotted. Even if someone chose to glance up for some reason, the lamp's glare would hide him.  
The tall man was now joined by a woman, of medium build and long dark hair. In her hand she carried a sword. Ross' years of academic life enabled him to identify the blade, a Polish saber from the middle ages, lightly curved, single-edged, hardly any guard, a lightweight slashing weapon.  
The tall man drew forth his hand from the leather coat, revealing that he, too, had a sword. This blade was a cutlass, short and heavy, with a solid bell-guard that gave the hand complete protection. The woman spoke first.  
"I am Moire O'Flanders, of Dublin, Ireland, born two hundred seventy-three years ago." She spoke with a musical lilt, her accent not quite gaelic, tinged with shadings that Ross, for all his language skills, could put no name to.   
"And I am Jacob Robinns, born four hundred and two years ago in London." The man spoke with a deep bass voice, and his accent was also untraceable.  
The two combatants closed the distance, and began to fight. As they cut, thrust, and parried, they managed to spare enough breath for some conversation.  
"So Jacob, a Londoner, are you?"  
"Yes, Moire, a Londoner. And you, are not only a poor fighter, but unable to make an effective distraction!" With this, he lunged fiercely, but met empty air. The woman spun, drew a long dagger from her belt, and buried it in the man's left shoulder. He leapt back, and tore the razor-keen blade from his savaged flesh.  
"Hm, better than I gave you credit for, lass. But I still live. En garde!" He swept forward again, sweeping the cutlass in wide arcs that whistled through empty air.  
"Burn your energy all you wish, fool. Will you live to be the last of us if I take your head while you're gasping for air?" Moire stepped lightly to the side and back, letting the wild strokes, which partook more of vigor than skill, be deflected by cleverly angled parries of the lightly curved blade in her hand.  
"My wind will last longer than yours, woman," Robinns snarled. "The heads I've taken outnumber your own kills by the basket-load!"  
"And will you trust the power of the Quickening alone to keep you going?"  
He finally gave up on his furious attack, and began to probe her guard carefully. "And why not? It is the Quickening that has kept me alive for four centuries, and will preserve my body forever."  
"Only if your head stays on your shoulders." O'Flanders suddenly launched a sweeping offensive, weaving a net of steel to entrap her opponent's unwary blade. He slipped through her attacks and launched one of his own, biting deep into her left leg with his sword-edge. She bit back a yelp, and rammed the point of her steel into his body. He dropped to his knees. She scooped up the cutlass, let fall from his numbed fingers, and stood over him.  
"There can only be one, Jacob. And that one shall recieve the Prize. A pity you will not be there to see that. Goodbye." With that, she swung down at an angle, cleaving through spine and flesh, sending the man's head flying.  
At this point, a rather shocked and bewildered John Ross had seen something that truly unmanned him. For a few seconds, the decapitated corpse lay in the dirt, motionless. Then it began to glow. John Ross, no stranger to bizarre sights, looked on in awe as the mortal remains of Jacob Robinns was lifted into the air by unseen forces, giving off a blue radiance like that of a lightning bolt. Moire O'Flanders stood with her arms outstretched, cutlass and saber both forgotten as they lay on the dusty ground. A great wind sprang up out of nowhere, and thin tendrils of energy, creeping like ivy vines, if ivy vines had been bred by Thor the thunder god, spread slowly, almost delicately, from the headless body that now hung in the air like a blue sun, filling the alley with its pallid glow. The slowly writhing ropes of lightning fanned out, then gathered together as it focused on a single destination: the waiting swordswoman below. Suddenly the bolts increase in size, speed, and numbers, flowing like a torrential waterfall of blue fire into the body of the centuries old woman. She twitched and shook, a look of wonder, bliss, and perhaps agony covering her face, which was illumined by an unearthly light. The lamp exploded suddenly, touched by an errant strand of soulfire. It was followed by all the lightbulbs Ross could see, as well as all the windows. A car parked nearby shook violently, the engine starting, headlights and radio turning on. It rolled forward slowly, then was cut off in it's tracks as the windshield shattered and the metal of the hood burst apart. Then, it was over, the end as sudden as the beginning was gradual. The corpse fell to earth, no longer glowing, and the ancient Irish woman dropped to her knees, gasping for air.  
When she looked up, she saw a man. He was ordinary-looking, but a bit battered, as if by long travel. He leaned on a curiously engrave staff of black walnut, and gazed at her with the oldest eyes she had ever seen. She would have taken him for an Immortal, but there was no Buzz of Quickening coming from him, despite his proximity. Then he broke the silence.  
"Would you care to tell me what just happened? First, come with me. Your fireworks display is bound to attract attention in a town this size, and you seem ill-equipped to deal with that at the moment. By the way," he added, scooping up the hilt of the Polish blade and handing it to her, "I believe this is yours."  
She was to numb yet to speak, but took the sword, and the helping hand, he led her away to a nearby campground, where she gave him the answers he had sought...  
  
...Which had, in turn, led him to further questions. Now, though, he had found his goal, and would hopefully recieve some illumination as soon as Macleod...  
His musings were interupted by the jingling of the bell over the door. He and Ms. Ellenstein both looked up to see a tall, gangly man in slacks and a sweater, his lean face dominated by a blade-thin hawk-beak of a nose. When he spoke, he used a clipped british accent.  
"Excuse, me, my name is Adam Pierson, and I'm looking for Mr. Russell Nash. Perhaps you can..." He froze suddenly when his eyes met Ross', and both of them paused to take the measure of the other.  
  
Connor Macleod had been struck by an idea. This close to Halloween, many strange things were seen in the streets of New York, most of them drunks that had been thrown out of costume parties. A naked man with a long rag-wrapped bundle in his arms running from Times Square to Hudson Street would probably atract little attention. He didn't like it, but there was no alternative that he could see. His clothes were in veritable shreds, and more importantly, drenched in gore. He removed his tattered garb, took a large piece from the inner lining of his coat and shaped it into a mask, to preserve his dignity. The rest of his clothing he used to wrap the Samurai in such a way that anyone looking at it would not immediately think "sword." He was only moderately successful in this, at best. *Oh, well. Off we go.*  
And off he went.  
  
  



End file.
